“Why, man,” he replied, “this is our hotel, the Russian consulate,” and he stepped in through the open window.
My misgivings fled. Japan and Russia were at war; the consulate, therefore, must be unoccupied, and more than that, it was Russian territory, on which the police of Japan had no more authority than in Moscow. I swung a leg over the window sill.
“Ascolta!” gasped the half-caste, snatching at my jacket; “Ci sono gente!”
I paused to listen. From somewhere close at hand came a muffled snort.
“Come on,” laughed the Chilian. “It’s one of the boys, snoring. Several of them make posada here.”
When we had climbed in and closed the shutter, he struck a match. The room was entirely unfurnished, but carpeted with grass mats so soft that a bed would have been superfluous. The Chilian pulled open the door of a closet and brought forth a candle, pipe, blanket, and a paper novel in Spanish.
“Of course it’s only the servants’ quarters,” he apologized, spreading out the blanket and lighting candle and pipe; “the main part of the house is tight locked. But there’s plenty of room for such of the boys as I have passed the word to,—sober fellows that won’t burn the place up.”
He picked up the novel and was still reading when I fell asleep. Sunlight streaming into my face and the sound of an unfamiliar voice awakened me in what seemed a short hour afterward. The window by which we had entered stood wide open, and a Japanese in European garb was peering in upon us.
“What you make here?” he demanded, as I sprang to my feet. “Come out quick or I call the police.”
The Chilian stirred and thrust aside the jacket that covered his face.